


Sweet Music

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [30]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Autumn, Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I promise, Light Angst, M/M, Nature, Post-Apocalypse, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Sweet, and he gets one!!!, glad you didn't end, happy birthday earth, thanks crowley!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 01:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21128357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: The leaves crackled and crunched under Aziraphale’s feet, and the wind whistled through the branches, and somewhere a cricket was beginning to sing.The angel closed his eyes and smiled as he walked, delighting at the snap of a twig as he tread upon it.He had always enjoyed a good symphony, after all.





	Sweet Music

**Author's Note:**

> so we're all always analyzing crowley's Trauma TM (because it's just so fucking obvious) but we also seem to ignore aziraphale's part in all of this
> 
> this fic doesn't really Dig Into it, but it does show that he was Affected and is Recovering

The leaves crackled and crunched under Aziraphale’s feet, and the wind whistled through the branches, and somewhere a cricket was beginning to sing.

The angel closed his eyes and smiled as he walked, delighting at the  _ snap _ of a twig as he tread upon it.

He had always enjoyed a good symphony, after all.

Autumn had arrived just as it had every other year, and rightly so because as so far as nature was concerned, this year  _ was _ just like every other year.

As so far as  _ Aziraphale  _ was concerned, however,  _ it wasn’t _ .

The world has teetered on the brink of ending, had been a hairsbreadth away from ruin. It almost ended—all of it over, forever, for eternity—but it hadn’t.

It  _ hadn’t _ . It had kept going, all but forgetting the way the skies had grown dark and the seas had boiled.

The world hadn’t ended, and everyone forgot.

Everyone but an angel and a demon and a little boy who lived in a village near Oxford.

They remembered.

They remembered well.

Aziraphale remembered the rain and the wind and the way Crowley has looked as he had turned his back and walked away, the way Metatron had sounded when he insisted upon war, the fear in Crowley’s—in his own—eyes as he was drug up to Heaven, the way the earth shook and splintered as the Morningstar rose, the look on Crowley’s face when Aziraphale had raised his flaming sword—

He blinked a few times to dispel the tears from his eyes.

The sun shone through the trees, a soft, warm light upon Aziraphale’s face.

After all of that, the Earth still spun. For 6,023 years, it had spun, and it spun still, just as lovely as ever.

Aziraphale wiped his cheeks and smiled, marveling in quiet and the calm that seemed to hang over him.

After so many years in London, it was quite the novelty.

But silence was common in the South Downs—or, at least, silence in that rustic, outdoorsy way that was actually full of songs, full of singing crickets and frogs and birds, each carrying their own wonderful, _earthly_ melody.

They’d moved out here, he and Crowley, just a month after the world failed to end.

London held too many memories.

So they packed up their things—actually  _ packed  _ their things, fearing what might happen if miracles mixed with plants or ancient manuscripts—into a lorry and set off to a little cottage by the sea.

_ A.Z. Fell & Co.  _ had closed its doors for the foreseeable future.

(Many a conspiracy swirled around why the strange old shop run by an even  _ stranger _ old man had suddenly, inexplicably closed—the mob had taken him down, one theory posited. Another stated that the old man—who was believed by some to be an alien, or a spy, or some other fanciful thing—had been reassigned, moved to some other area to continue his mission. Most, however, thought the man’s rather ineffective business practices had finally done him in, and the place had simply gone out of business.

None of these theories were entirely correct, although the second one was the closest.)

Aziraphale had ought to be heading back to the cottage soon, actually. He and Crowley were going out to dinner that night—it was their anniversary, after all.

Six-thousand and twenty-three years to the day.

But instead, the angel stood in the middle of the wood behind the cottage, grinning in the sun.

“Aziraphale?” a voice called from behind him. “Angel, are you out here?”

“Over here, darling!” Aziraphale replied.

He didn’t turn, he didn’t move—he didn’t have to. Bony arms wrapped around his waist as a chin dug into his shoulder.

“We’re gonna be late,” Crowley muttered, his words muffled by Aziraphale’s collar.

The angel leaned back into the demon’s embrace. “Actually, I think you’ll find our reservation was made for seven- _ thirty _ , not seven.”

Crowley scoffed, and Aziraphale could feel as he rolled his eyes. “You’re a scoundrel, you know that?”

“Oh, you love it,” Aziraphale replied. He turned his head just slightly to kiss Crowley’s temple.

“You’re right,” the demon agreed. “I do. Always have, really.”

The world hadn’t ended, but it had changed.

Aziraphale found he didn’t really mind it.

**Author's Note:**

> it's simple, it's sweet, tell me what you think


End file.
